


Deal or No Deal?

by turquoisecity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (only it’s in Westeros), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brexit, Brienne is Jeremy Corbyn, British Politics, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Jaime is Theresa May (kind of), Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d write, Please Don't Kill Me, Politics, but nice and not a fascist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoisecity/pseuds/turquoisecity
Summary: There was a referendum, and the people of Westeros have spoken. Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows?It’s a very bad day - hells, it’s been a very bad two years - for Prime Minister Jaime Lannister, and his Leader of the Opposition just makes it worse. Until she doesn’t.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello. Long time no see. 
> 
> This is a) an attempt to kickstart myself back into writing in the hope that I might actually finish my WIPs before Season 8, and b) more importantly, my ironic way of processing the clusterfuck which my country’s politics has descended into. For those in other countries with their own (worse) clusterfucks, I’m sorry. You have my sympathy. 
> 
> Just to clarify:
> 
> 1) This is crack. I do not know the ‘answer’ to Brexit. I wish I did. The resolution of this fic, when it comes, is intended as JUST THAT, the resolution of THIS FIC and nothing else, and is completely fanciful and bears no relation to anything in real life. So please don’t come at me with political arguments because that’s not why I’m doing this. Also it’s set in Westeros for this reason, although I’ve kept the names of British political parties and institutions.
> 
> 2) My knowledge of political machinations is gleaned entirely from watching comedy shows such as Yes Minister or The Thick Of It. So apologies in advance for any inaccuracies. Again, Westeros. :)
> 
> 3) I do not, never have, nor will I ever, ship Theresa May with Jeremy Corbyn. This has been a PSA. Thank you.

Jaime sighed heavily - not for the first time that morning - as his ministerial car rounded the corner by the Houses of Parliament.

The lawn opposite the Red Keep was, as usual, dotted with TV news crews and reporters, each doing their best to appear to the cameras as though they were the only one there, but behind them, the ranks of protestors – from both sides - appeared to be growing daily. Men and women of all ages stood there bundled up against the January chill, with their flags and placards, some chanting slogans, some accosting passers-by with leaflets, and one lone crazy was repeatedly tolling a bell for some reason best known to themselves.

At this early hour, it all looked very civilised; this was _Westeros_ , after all – a place where violent revolution had been unheard of since the Age of Magic – but there had been reports recently of things getting occasionally ugly. Members of Parliament verbally harassed; racist taunts; it was extremely troubling. And this could be the day when things might just erupt. The day when all his months of painful negotiations, and fruitless wrestling with party factions – some of them certifiably insane – would come to a head, as he presented his deal to the House for a decisive vote. Frankly, he wasn’t hopeful about the outcome.

 _How_ _in_ _all_ _the_ _hells_ _did_ _I_ _get_ _into_ _this_? he wondered (again, not for the first time). Two and a half years ago, he’d been perfectly happy as a fairly inert defence minister in Prime Minister Robert Baratheon’s cabinet. Well, that wasn’t _strictly_ true. He was about as happy as anyone who’d ended up in politics against all of his own wishes but simply because ‘That is what Lannisters _do_ ’, according to his father, Tywin, who’d served as Chancellor to bonkers old Aerys Targaryen for all of his three long terms back in the eighties. Tywin had permitted Tyrion to go into law instead – a career for which his brain and appearance were, admittedly, better suited – but had made it clear that this concession on his part left Jaime no wiggle room when it came to obeying the call to govern.

The real joke was that he wasn’t even really a Tory, though to admit that to Tywin or any of their wealthy ‘set’ would have been social and financial suicide. At university he’d actually been fairly left-wing. He’d volunteered and campaigned and gone on a great many marches (though he was always careful to keep his rather recognisable face out of the papers). With age, he’d drifted more towards the centre ground, but Westerosi politics didn’t really allow that as an option, unless you fancied joining the rather pathetically dwindling ranks of Mace Tyrell’s ultra-nice, ultra-boring, Liberals or Democratic Centrists or ‘Rainbow’ Party or whatever the fuck they were calling themselves these days. Well, ‘they’ might be a generous term. These days it was pretty much just Mace. The poor sod.

Jaime, however, had been forced to pick a side, and for a Lannister to stand as a _Labour_ MP would quite simply have shaken the realm to its foundations and possibly reawakened the Night King or something. So he’d swallowed his principles, however bitter the taste, and resigned himself to a life on ‘the left of the Conservative Party’ (an oxymoron if ever there was one), consoling himself with the thought that at least if he could avoid getting appointed to any of the senior cabinet posts, he could stir things up occasionally from the back benches and maybe salve his conscience a _tiny_ bit.

But politics had a way of sucking the very life-blood out of stronger men than him, and by the time that Robert, the disgusting creep, had for some unknown reason taken a shine to Jaime and personally requested his appointment to the Cabinet, he’d lost all of his idealism, all of his will to fight, and most of his self-worth, and was grimly preparing to bed in for the next twenty years, or until the merciful day when his constituents finally realised he was a fraud and voted him out.

Then came the fateful referendum which would blow the country – and his life – inside out.

In a bitterly divisive vote, and by the narrowest of margins, the Westerosi electorate had chosen to leave the Westeros and Free Cities International Trade Association, or WFCITA – an acronym which the tabloid press had long ago somehow scrambled to translate as ‘Well Fuck It All’. Which was pretty apt, considering everything. The consequences would be profound on every level and would change Westerosi society, possibly forever. In the wake of the vote, horror gripped those who had opposed the campaign; there were protests, arrests, disturbing reports of hate speech and violent incidents; Dorne even threatened to secede. Shaken to his core by the result, Robert Baratheon, who apparently hadn’t _meant_ that to happen, had promptly resigned the premiership, leaving a power vacuum at just the moment when the nation truly needed leadership.

The prime contenders for party leader had been Robert’s brother Stannis – a man with the charisma of a wet lettuce leaf and the moral compass of a lizard, nakedly ambitious to the point where he would probably burn his own children for a shot at the top job; Baylon Greyjoy, a grizzled old loon who was the only Tory ever to emerge out of the staunchly separatist Iron Islands; and the young northern upstart Robb Stark, a nice enough lad who had certainly managed to rally some much-needed youth votes to the party, but who was infinitely too inexperienced for the job of Prime Minister, especially at a time of national crisis.

So that when Varys, the slimy Chief Whip who was known for organising all of the backroom deals, came to Jaime with a proposition, he found he knew what his response would be before the word ‘Yes’ had even left his lips. Gods knew, he had never harboured even the slightest ambition to be Prime Minister, and under any other circumstances would have turned it down like a shot, but something deep inside him, something which he’d believed long dead (call it patriotism, duty, some innate Lannister leadership gene, or a feebly flickering ember of his youthful desire to _do_ _good_ ), compelled him.

‘Your face alone would restore national morale, win over the Free Cities leaders at the forthcoming talks, and probably raise the Party several points in the polls,’ Varys was simpering. ‘Just look at what Daenerys Targaryen has been able to achieve in Meereen, purely by being pretty.’

‘I think you’ll find that probably has more to do with her policies on emancipation and rebuilding the country’s infrastructure,’ frowned Jaime. ‘Surely we haven’t reached the point where what a politician looks like is more important than their actions?’

‘Oh Jaime, it’s 2016,’ said Varys with a laugh. ‘Of _course_ we have. And you have the perfect face for television. People will gaze at you in awe and not even listen to what you’re saying. It’s exactly what we need.’

‘Well I don’t know about that,’ he grumbled. ‘I’d quite like to be listened to, actually. I might have things to say. Important things.’

‘Oh please don’t,’ said Varys with a shudder. ‘Robert had a habit of _saying_ things, in case you hadn’t noticed, and look where that’s got us. No, you just need to smile, wave, and use that famous Lannister charm of yours to dazzle the bureaucrats in Braavos so that they’ll give us the best deal possible. It’ll be a piece of cake.’

It was not a piece of cake.

 


	2. Chapter 2

‘Prime Minister! Prime Minister!’

‘Prime Minister! Do you think your deal will be defeated in the House tonight?’

‘Can your government really resolve this crisis, Prime Minister? Can you give the Westerosi people any assurances?’

‘Do you have any comment regarding the rumours that Melisandre is plotting a leadership challenge?’

‘WILL YOU BE MEETING WITH THE LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION, PRIME MINISTER?!’

Jaime physically flinched as the shrill voice of the WBC political editor, Lysa Tully, pierced through the general wall of journalistic noise which greeted him the instant he stepped out of the car. The urge to scream back, grind his jaw, or at the very least run his hand through his hair in frustration was almost overwhelming. Unfortunately all three of these things were forbidden - the last by his stylist, Pia, who would complain endlessly if he touched his hair after all the time she’d spent getting it to shine and sit just so. He couldn’t really see what all the fuss was about; his hair hadn’t looked right to him since they made him cut it off when he ran for party leader. And shave off his beard, because apparently beards were ‘lefty’. He missed his beard.

Anyway, his brief in the face of such questioning was to say nothing, but to appear ‘calm and businesslike’, or ‘strong and stable’ (although nobody was permitted to use that phrase anymore), which meant that even the trademark Lannister smile was off limits this morning, lest he be caught on camera ‘not taking his duty to the country seriously’.He therefore contented himself with smoothing his tie and clutching his folders more firmly to his chest in order to still his itchy fingers, and with a nod to the press - his features schooled into an expression which he hoped conveyed capability and leadership rather than ‘I have no fucking clue what I’m doing’ – he bid good morning to the Gold Cloak stationed at the door and swept into the building as quickly as was decent.

Bronn Blackwater, his director of communications, was waiting inside, bouncing on his toes as usual. ‘Well, you’re fucked, I hope you know that?’ was his grim greeting.

‘Good morning to you too, Bronn,’ Jaime returned, finally permitting himself a smile at his friend’s blunt manner.

‘Was that Lysa Fucking Tully I heard out there? I thought she’d been warned to stay away. I still can’t fucking wrap my head around the fact that you and her dated at university.’

‘Briefly,’ said Jaime through gritted teeth, adding ‘Thanks’ as a staff member came to take his coat. ‘And she’s a respected journalist, she’s entitled to ask questions. We can’t “warn her off” without appearing biased. She may be batty, bolshy and the absolute bane of my existence, but it’s fine.’

‘My, my. Aren’t we poetic this morning? What’s got into you? Get laid last night, did you?’

‘Have you ever heard of protocol, Bronn?’ enquired Jaime dryly.

‘Nah, fuck that. Anyway, I rather thought that the award for Absolute Bane of Your Existence went to someone else these days.’

‘Who, you? Probably,’ he quipped, beginning to walk towards his office with Bronn strutting alongside.

‘Not me. I’m the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to you, that’s what I am. No, I meant _her_.’

Ah yes. _Her_. The truth was that Lysa’s voice, grating as it was, would have produced nowhere near as visceral a reaction from him, if she hadn’t gone and asked about _her._ The Leader of the Opposition, and the absolute, undisputed, unabating bane of his entire fucking existence. _Brienne_ _Tarth_.

_Gods_. He could feel his jaw clenching even at the thought of her. Day after day, month after fucking month, she sat across from him in the House, all blue eyes and self-righteousness, or loomed over him at the dispatch box, simply dripping disapproval, and it was all he could do not to bound over there, wrap his hands around that ridiculous, freckly, giraffe-like neck of hers and throttle her. The stupid idealistic girl. On and on she droned, spouting her so-called policies which were usually little better than pipe dreams, and daring to criticise him for failing to sort out the Wexit mess. He’d like to see her try to make a better job of it.

Or on second thoughts, no. That was what she kept asking for, after all, even though she was too afraid of upsetting anyone to come out and actually state what her position on it was. What a joke. At least he’d done something. He’d gone to the WFCITA headquarters in Braavos, over and over again, and negotiated his arse off with that bastard Tycho Nestoris, who’d made it clear that he had little patience with emotive Westerosi politics, and finally come back with something to show for it. It was hardly Jaime’s fault that his Party was made up of groups of squabbling schoolchildren, some of them barely in touch with reality.

Okay, so it _was_ his fault – _technically_ – that they’d had an unnecessary General Election which had seen his majority more than halved and left him relying on the goodwill (and greed) of the Sparrows Party, a group of highly unpleasant religious extremists, to get anything through Parliament. He’d rashly allowed himself to be swayed by Varys, who’d convinced him that a consolidation of his leadership would strengthen his negotiating position in Braavos, and that mistrust in Brienne Tarth ran so deep throughout Westeros that Jaime would win by a landslide, resulting in the Labour Party being crippled for a generation and ousting her as leader.

That hadn’t worked out so well.

Who knew that a woman who came across as about as much fun as cold bath might inspire millennial voters to actually get off their arses and go the ballot box, for the first time, in some cases? Never mind that she was the youngest Labour leader ever, and the most left-wing for a generation. Never mind that her manifesto promises spoke directly to young people’s concerns. Never mind that she seemed fucking honest to a fault. She’d still almost cost him the election, and she was still fucking annoying. 

                       **********

‘So Brienne, have you given any more thought to what you’re going to do when the Prime Minister’s deal is defeated tonight?’ Margaery was saying, while flicking efficiently through the rail of clothing that Sansa had put out as options for today.

‘ _If_ it’s defeated,’ corrected Brienne, squirming slightly in the chair as Sansa powdered her face. She wished Margaery wouldn’t insist on holding these briefings while she was getting her make-up done. It was humiliating enough to have to get done up like this every day, and she would never get used to it however many times she had to do it, without having to put her political head on at precisely the moment when imposter syndrome had her most firmly in its grip. Still, it was a big day, and she supposed time was at a premium, so she could scarcely complain today. Maybe tomorrow. She sighed.

‘I think you’ll find it’s a foregone conclusion,’ drawled Margaery. ‘It’s only a question of how much he loses by. The word on the street is, it might be historic.’

‘Well, I still don’t think we should count our chickens, or do anything rash, until we see what actually happens.’

‘Right, of course,’ said Margaery with ill-concealed impatience. ‘But in the _hypothetical_ case that he loses, and by a lot, what do you plan to do about it?’

‘Podrick has prepared two speeches’ – Brienne began.

‘Three,’ put in Podrick from the corner.

‘ – three speeches: one in the event of a win for the Prime Minister, in which case I commend him for bringing the uncertainty to a close but harangue him for all the time and money which it’s wasted. One if he loses by a huge margin, in which I propose a vote of no confidence. And, er, a third for, um…? Podrick?’

‘A third one if he loses by a narrow margin, in which you call him a traitor and ask him when he’s going to stop sitting on the fence to please his back benchers and put the will of the Westerosi people first.’

‘Oh gods no, we can’t say that!’ gasped Margaery. ‘That’s what _we’re_ doing.’

‘I thought we were sitting on the fence to please the people and not putting the will of our MPs first?’

‘A subtle but crucial difference,’ said Margaery with a grimace. ‘Rip that one up, Podrick. We won’t need it anyway.’

‘I really think we should be prepared for all eventualities,’ protested Brienne.

‘Well, have you thought about this eventuality: what if he wants to talk?’

‘Does he ever do anything else?’

‘I mean, what if he wants to _have_ _talks_. With you. And the other party leaders.’

Brienne’s head swivelled around so fast that Sansa had to whip the eyeliner quickly away in order to avoid leaving a huge streak across her face. ‘He wouldn’t! Would he?’

‘If he loses, I’m not sure what other options he’s got,’ said Margaery. ‘Braavos have made it pretty clear that they’re done negotiating. Gods know Lannister can’t rely on any help from his own party. You might be his only hope of getting this thing through the House at a second pop – _assuming_ , of course, that it doesn’t pass tonight,’ she added hurriedly.

‘But I don’t _want_ him to get it through the House!’ exclaimed Brienne. ‘What I want is for him and his entire nasty, lying shower to be exposed for the self-interested cowards they really are and get thrown out of government so that we can finally start putting some things right in this country!’ She attempted to remove the tissue at her neck and rise out of the chair in indignation.

‘Ms Tarth, I’m really sorry, but could you…’ implored Sansa, tugging her back down.

Brienne sat down with a huff and then smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, Sansa. Please do carry on.’ She settled back to submit herself once again to the girl’s ministrations.

Margaery had resumed flicking at the clothes hangers with increased speed. ‘So it’s all guns blazing for a General Election then? Is that where we’re still at?’

‘I dislike your militaristic metaphor, Margaery, but yes. I really don’t see another option. It’s what’s best for Westeros.’

‘And what does Westeros think about that?’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Brienne.

‘You know there’s growing support on both sides for a second referendum.’

‘Margaery, we’ve been over this. How can I hold my head up as an advocate of democracy if I just keep asking them to vote again until we get a different answer? Assuming we would get a different answer, which is by no means guaranteed.’

‘Well,’ said Margaery in a wry tone, ‘at least that’s one thing you’ve got in common with Lannister. So there might be more. You never know. Ah!’ She stopped flicking and pulled out a pink, brocade-trimmed dress and jacket. ‘This one, I think.’

Brienne’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Pink?! Oh gods, please no. Shouldn’t I have something a little less… gender-coded?’

‘I thought it was nice,’ said Sansa defensively.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said Margaery with a smirk. ‘Feminism is reclaiming pink. It no longer reads “girly”. It reads “powerful”. It says “I am woman”’ -

‘Hear me roar,’ supplied Podrick automatically, without looking up from his notes until three heads swung slack-jawed to look at him. ‘What?’

‘Podrick,’ said Brienne. ‘Not helpful.’

There was a pause. Then, ‘Oh. Sorry. Poor choice of words.’

‘You think?!’ quipped Margaery.

‘Right. Sorry, ignore me.’

‘I was,’ deadpanned Margaery. ‘Anyway, just put it on, Brienne. Seriously, I don’t need pictures of you all over social media today with complaints about your “army fatigues” or your “professor tweed” or any of the other shit. You’ll look great. Trust me.’

‘I’ll look like a sofa,’ muttered Brienne, but dutifully took the suit from Margaery’s outstretched hand and, having confirmed that Sansa was finished with her, moved behind the small privacy screen in the corner of the office which she used for getting changed.

_Reclaiming_ _pink_ , _my_ _arse_ , she thought, eyeing the suit with hatred even as she hung it on the back of the screen and began to remove her jeans. _It’s_ _the_ _patriarchy_. _I_ _bet_ _Jaime_ _Bloody_ _Lannister_ _never_ _has to put up with this crap._ Then again, Jaime Bloody Lannister probably rolled out of bed in the morning looking coiffed and golden and perfect. She could just imagine the way he’d look at her in the House, standing there smirking from behind the dispatch box in his ten-thousand-dragon suit, his preposterously-coloured eyes half contemptuous and half undressing her, oozing sarcasm from every carefully moisturised pore.

She could never begin to comprehend how anyone entrusted with so weighty a duty as his could seem to fail to take it even remotely seriously. Every word that emerged from his exquisitely shaped lips was a quip or a drawl or a challenge of some kind, usually directed at her. Oh, she understood that politics was a game to some extent, and the theatre of Parliament itself was just that – a show – but these were serious times, gods damn it, and the man needed to shape up. While he and his infantile MPs bickered, there were people homeless or starving, hospitals struggling for cash, rights being eroded.

And the worst of it was, she was complicit. Every day that she stood across from him and let herself get drawn into his games, she was complicit. It made her want to murder him. Not that she condoned violence. Unless it was part of The Struggle. She zipped up the dress and slipped on the jacket, trying hard to focus on the mindfulness podcast which she’d been listening to on her journey into work, and not to wonder whether tackling Jaime Lannister to the floor of the House, kneeling on top of him and giving him a damn good pummelling would count as part of The Struggle. _It probably would,_ she thought. _I mean, if Privilege had a face, I’m pretty sure it would look like him._ She pinched the bridge of her nose and stepped out from behind the screen.

‘Oh my gods, no!’ cried Margaery, horrified. ‘You were right, Brienne. Take it off. Take it off at once!’

It was going to be a very long day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaery’s final line is taken from The Thick Of It. Also shoutout to @widdershins who inspired a little of Brienne-as-Jeremy here. :)


End file.
